She tosses her pencil on the floor and groans. “Every time I think I’m getting close to her, she changes. I’ve always been able to see things so clearly.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I say, leaning my head on her shoulder.
She rests her cheek on my head. “How do you see the world, Bec?”
I feel like that girl with no face as I answer, “I don’t think I’ve ever really looked.”
I blink away the tightness I can feel behind my eyes, refocusing on Max’s sketches. Max is an artist. A damn good one, too.
“This is cool,” I say, panic rising up my throat like bile, which is so dumb because it’s not like there aren’t plenty of artists in the world. This is not fate. I need to ask Charlie about the daily odds of meeting artists. They’ve got to be high, right?
I clear my throat. “Where’s the balcony?”
A couple of pages are thrust at me. One depicts the football field I was just studying in the background, and in the foreground there’s a girl standing on the top of the bleachers and a boy underneath them. Another page has a sketch of a stairwell with school spirit banners hung on the walls. Juliet is on the top step and Romeo looks up at her from the bottom floor. But my favorite is a sketch of the theater. Juliet is standing on the catwalk shining the spotlight on Romeo down onstage. The lines on each sketch are crisp—solid—inked with a sense of permanence.
Max’s sketches ooze confidence, like he has no reason to question the world his pen is creating. Charlotte drew in short, static bursts, dragging her fingers back over the charcoal to solidify the lines. Using her flesh to make the pictures come to life. They are very different, Max and Charlotte.
I look up at Max, who’s drumming his fingers on the table. “These are amazing,” I say. His expression unfurls with a wide smile that makes my poor, wrung-out heart stutter.
Very different.
Victor takes the pages back and sorts them into piles. “Don’t get too excited.” He hands me another drawing. “This is the one he’s turning in to Owens.”
This drawing is beautiful, too, but the balcony in this sketch is like every other balcony Juliet has ever stood on.
“Why not this one?” I ask, pointing at the theater sketch.
Max’s gaze slides over my shoulder, looking out the window behind me. I look at Victor.
“Owens is a traditionalist, and Max is a pansy.”
Max flips Victor off.
“You have to show these to Mr. Owens, Max. They’re brilliant.” Max’s eyes come back to mine. “You have to try.”
“Oh, I do, do I?” Max leans forward, placing his hands over the drawings in front of me, our fingertips nearly touching. “What about you?”
“You want me to show him? Sure.” I try to arch a brow at him, but I feel like my face is made of plastic.
Victor laughs.
Max shakes his head. “You know what I mean. Are you playing Juliet?”
I am. Mom and Dad took me out to dinner to celebrate my decision last night. “Are you showing him these sketches?”
We narrow our eyes, sizing each other up over the table. My insides are on fire watching him this closely. I imagine sliding my fingers forward, locking them with his. But this isn’t a story in a book. And that stuff doesn’t happen in real life. So I stay firmly planted in my seat, staring at his mouth.
He must notice that my gaze is trapped on his lips, because instead of speaking out loud, he mouths the words I’m in.
Scene Twelve
[A classroom]
We stop by Mr. Owens’s classroom on the way out of school. Max drums his thumb against the brown portfolio containing his sketches. I keep getting these punches of adrenaline that make me feel like my fingertips are electric, but I can’t tell if I’m more nervous for myself or Max.
Max’s jaw is set like stone as he holds the door open for me. Mr. Owens’s classroom is darker than the hallway. The windows have thick curtains drawn over them, and the overhead fluorescent lights aren’t on. Instead, he’s got lamps spread around the room, each creating its own shallow pool of light.
Mr. Owens, sitting in one such puddle at his desk, smiles and waves us in. This is the first time I’ve seen him like this—up close, not hidden and mysterious as he sits far away in the audience and blinds me with a spotlight. He reminds me of a snowman, not because he’s particularly jolly, but because he’s so round. Round, balding head. Round torso. Even his hands look like he’s wearing mittens.
“Maximo, you brought me my star,” Mr. Owens says, his baritone voice so large it fills the dark corners of the room. “Come in. Sit. We have much to discuss.”
I shrug at Max, who smirks and leads me to a loveseat framed by two floor lamps. We sit facing Mr. Owens, who comes around to the front of his desk and leans back on it. I get the feeling it is supposed to look like a natural position, but it seems rehearsed.
“My dear, Becca, I realize you being cast as Juliet was a surprise.” Mr. Owens pauses and waggles his eyebrows at me. “But when I saw you on that stage and heard you speak, I knew, in a moment of divine inspiration, my prayers for the success of this play had been answered.”
I blink, shifting in my seat.
“May I assume that you are here today to accept this most prodigious role?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, looking down at the worn shag throw rug in front of the love seat.
“Good, good. Rehearsals begin tomorrow.”
“Mr. Owens?” Max sits forward, tapping the portfolio on his knees. “I’ve got some preliminary sketches for set designs.”
“Excellent, Maximo,” Owens says, stretching a thick paw toward the folder. He opens it and sifts through the sketches, his whole face wriggling with a thousand expressions.
Beside me, Max has sucked in his lips and is biting on them. He’ll need an extra slathering of ChapStick after this.
Owens’s smile is broad and unnaturally white, as he holds up one page in particular. I lean forward to see which one it is, but the room is so dim I can’t make it out.
“Perfect,” Mr. Owens says in a breathy way. “She’ll be perfect standing here.” He closes his eyes and leans back again, probably envisioning the scene in his mind. The paper falls forward in his hand and I can see it’s the classic, I’ve been standing on a balcony just like this for centuries now, set piece. An angry wave crashes over me.
“Not that one,” I say, standing and sifting through the drawings to find my favorite. Mr. Owens opens his eyes in surprise, and I shove the sketch of the catwalk at him. “This one. This is the one—the perfect balcony for Juliet.”
Mr. Owens gives me a pitying look. “Going diva on me already,” he says, chuckling.
Max stands beside me.
“A set like this will change the whole tone of the story. It’ll make it possible to tell a whole new story.”
“A new story?” Owens says, his deep voice tinged with shadows deeper than the ones falling across the floor. “What makes you think Romeo and Juliet needs meddling with?”
I step away, still holding Max’s sketch. Pissing the director off before rehearsals start is probably not the best survival technique. I’m practically proving Darby’s point. I’m going to fail.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Of course, you know best.”
“Too often schools try to update this classic but, like a good pair of wingtip shoes, Shakespeare is never out of fashion.”
Mr. Owens puts the sketches back in the portfolio and hands it to Max. “Get your crew building a traditional set, Maximo.”
Max’s thumb lies still against the portfolio. “Yes, sir.”
“We’re doing everything by the book. Traditional costumes. Traditional Shakespearean language. Traditional casting.” Owens is making a frame around my face with his fingers, studying me through his lens.
“Traditional casting?” I ask. There is nothing traditional about casting me as Juliet. I don’t know the first thing about theater. Sure I’ve read lots of plays, b
ut until the other day, I’d never stood on a stage. I am an unconventional choice for Juliet at best.
“Yes, you will be perfect.” Owens nods and circles back around to his desk seat. He smiles in what I’m sure he thinks is a grand and reassuring way, but it comes off more like he’s constipated. “Becca, dear, you’ll need to learn to trust me. I know what I’m doing. I’m a very successful director. Highly sought-after, even.” He waves us off, turning his attention to the work on his desk. “Until tomorrow then.”
I’m frozen, staring at the bald spot on the top of Mr. Owens’s head as he reads. Max tugs at my elbow, directing me out of the room.
I have to blink in the bright light of the hallway. Max keeps pushing me along toward the doors to the parking lot, but I stop once we’re on the sidewalk outside.
“That guy’s crazy.” The adrenaline from before drains away, leaving me feeling weak-kneed. “Seriously, Max. How is this a good idea?”
Max’s smile barely lifts the corners of his mouth. “It’s just how Owens is.”
“An egomaniacal creep?”
“Well…” Max looks over my shoulder, studying the cars still in the parking lot. “Yes.” He shrugs in an apologetic way.
“So why put up with him?”
He ticks off his answers on his fingers. “Because he’s the director of the theater arts program here at Sandstone. Because no one at this school cares about the drama geeks anyway, and they care even less about us invisible techies. Because we have our ways of working around him. And in the end, because the play is the thing.”
He sighs, a sound like leaden feathers. “Don’t let Owens stand in your way. You’ll be a bright spot in the production, Bec. I can feel it.” His fist is clutched at his gut.
“Max—”
“Please?”
I look down at the sketch I’ve carried out with me. Working with Owens is obviously going to be a struggle, but working with Max? That may make all of Owens’s dramatics worth it. “May I keep this?”
“Are you still in?”
His face is so earnest. “Yes.”
“Then I’d be honored if you kept it, Juliet.”
I make a face. “Don’t call me that.”
Max chuckles. “As you wish.” I swat at him and he dodges. With a wink, he leads me off toward the parking lot.
I’m in. Deep.
Act Second
Scene One
[The theater]
Thursday evening is my first rehearsal as Juliet. At lunch, Max and the gang assured me it’d be fine. He said it’d be a read-through, no blocking (whatever that means), no props or light cues, and no need to have my lines memorized. The lines are the only things not worrying me.
I’ve always had a great memory for words. It’s not exactly a photographic memory, but words have a way of sticking to me. It used to drive Charlie crazy. He’s always said he could truly have been a mad genius if he’d been given half my memory. Up until now, I’ve only used my way with words to make it really, really easy to coast through school.
Dad drops me off before rehearsal. “Mom and I are excited for you, honey.” He pats my knee. His half smile makes his mustache look like it’s sliding off his lip.
“How did I get here, Dad?”
His mustache falls back into place. “I don’t know. But you’re here.”
I lean over and kiss his cheek. “I am here.” We exchange a quick smile and good-byes as I climb out of the car. A little over a year ago, I would never have thought to sign up for an after school club, let alone try out to be a freaking lead role in a play. I’m not the person I was before I met Charlotte, that’s for sure. But I’m also not the girl I became when she was around.
The air conditioning hits me when I step inside the school atrium. My skin prickles, and I shrug off the shiver creeping down my spine. I’m not sure how long I stand outside the door to the theater, unable to command my arm to reach for the handle, unwilling to pull it open and step inside.
“Wasn’t sure you’d show.” Max comes around the corner, his hands shoved in the pockets of his dark jeans. “I’d hoped, but…”
I know. Sometimes that isn’t enough.
Max stands beside me, his arm nearly brushing mine. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I inhale, feeling all the places inside where my breath catches. I am here. When I open this door, I will be there.
Here goes nothing, Charlotte.
You can do this, she whispers.
Max and I walk into the theater together. “This is me,” Max says, pointing up the stairs to the booth. “Break a leg.” He takes the steps two at a time, pausing halfway to turn back to me—like he’s checking to see if I’ve already run away.
I wave and watch as he disappears into the dark booth.
Alone, I scan the theater, getting the lay of the battlefield before me. If I’m going to do this, survive this play, I need to know what I’m up against—besides Darby—and a crazed director—and my ability to sabotage myself—and why did I think I could do this?
I recognize some kids from my classes, which should be reassuring, except I’m not sure of anyone’s name. Why do I never pay attention to these kinds of details?
I can see the circular bald spot on the back of Mr. Owens’s head where he’s sitting in the second row of seats. There are a handful of students around him, hanging on every word of the story he’s telling.
I spot Victor and Kelli onstage setting up chairs in a circle. Victor chases Kelli around the circle singing in a horribly off-key way. He ends the song abruptly and dashes to a seat, pulling Kelli down with him in a bizarre game of musical chairs.
Thomas, my Romeo, is sitting at the edge of the stage, leaning back on his hands, a girl on either side of him. He’s smiling and I can see dimples in his cheeks. He looks rakish and adorable at the same time, kind of how I imagine Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
A door slams behind me and everyone stops to look up the aisle. Quick calculation of who is missing in the group and I know without turning around that there’s a pair of pointy-toed, purple boots behind me.
“Wasn’t sure you’d show,” Darby snarls as she brushes past me up the wide center aisle. I’m amazed at how the same words can sound so different depending on how it’s being said. When Max said those words, I felt reassured. When Darby says them, I want to climb under the last row of seats and hide.
Mr. Owens claps his hands. “Everyone take a seat onstage. Let’s begin.” He says this like he’s in charge, but everyone glances at Darby before moving toward the seats.
Kelli and Victor are handing scripts to everyone. I’m the last one. Kelli gives me my script and a hug. I stiffen on instinct, not used to the casual physical contact. Kelli lets me go with a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I’m a hugger.”
“It’s okay.” And I want to mean it, because she seems so nice, and it’s not that I have anything against hugs, really. I’m just not used to them anymore.
Kelli points up to the booth. “We’ll be in the booth rooting for you, so break a leg.” She winks. “Preferably Darby’s.”
“Techies,” Owens says, his voice playing at jovial, but dripping with disdain. “There is no need for you to be on our stage now.” He opens his arms wide, indicating all the actors standing around him. “There are other, more suitable places for you to skulk.”
Victor’s face is suddenly beside Kelli’s as he leans over her shoulder and whispers, “Owens would look good in a cast, too.” He pulls Kelli with him offstage.
I hide my smile as I take an empty seat.
“No, that won’t do,” Mr. Owens says, bustling over. “Juliet must sit with her Romeo.” He leads me across the circle and motions for everyone to slide down one seat. My stomach is a double knot of fear.
While Mr. Owens situates himself, everyone talks to the people around them. I stare at my script for a moment, but the words on the cover are blurry.
Meggie, Darby’s short, curvy friend fro
m English with long black ringlets of curls framing her face, is sitting on my right. She pushes her hair behind her shoulder and asks, “So, exactly what kind of acting experience do you have?”
I blink, not sure she’s actually addressing me.
“None,” Darby says, her voice flat.
My nerves are buzzing, and I know I should keep my mouth shut, but— “That’s not true. When we were little, my brother wrote a play about a lonely electron, and he made me be the electron, because he said I was a natural for the part, and so we performed it for my parents, who said it was adorable, but I think that’s just what parents say, because it was a pretty stupid play—the lonely electron just wandered around being depressed.”
Meggie’s mouth is open in a little O. Thomas has shifted closer to listen, and I catch a whiff of chlorine again. I’ve got one finger good and tangled in my hair. I tug on it as the verbal flood I’ve unleashed continues to wash over everyone.
“Electrons are like that, you know, because they can’t ever hang out with other electrons. They repel one another. So the play sucked, because my brother was only good at science-y stuff then and didn’t know about plot.”
Not only are those closest to me staring, but the whole cast is stifling giggles. I can feel my face burning and realize I was a tad too enthusiastic in my retelling of the lonely electron story. And by enthusiastic, I mean loud.
Owens has stopped shuffling papers and is staring at me—a grim pallor on his cheeks.
“So, you see, I have some experience,” I finish lamely.
A loud blast of music rocks the theater. Everyone jumps, and a few people scream, but no one is paying attention to me anymore. I look up toward the booth and can see Victor and Kelli dancing. Max is leaning forward, his hand on the glass, looking straight at me with a one-hundred-watt smile.
“Maximo,” Owens shouts.
The music stops. “Sorry, Mr. O. My finger slipped.” Max’s warm voice, barely concealing his laughter, resounds through the theater like the voice of God.
Life After Juliet Page 7